


A Regular Casanova

by laulan



Category: White Collar
Genre: Domestic, Multi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-02-11
Updated: 2010-02-11
Packaged: 2018-09-27 16:17:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10031216
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/laulan/pseuds/laulan
Summary: Peter Burke is many things, but punctual and romantic? Well, one out of two ain't bad.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Original notes:   
> THIS IS FOR  [](http://kaiserkuchen.livejournal.com/profile)[kaiserkuchen](http://kaiserkuchen.livejournal.com/), because she is A) INCREDIBLY LOVELY, b) INCREDIBLY PATIENT, and c) INCREDIBLY AWESOME. Shaz, you deserve better than a short little ficlet, AND SOMEDAY SOON YOU WILL GET IT, but for now there's this. ♥ Hope you liiiike it, dearest! *crosses fingers* Also, a million thanks to the exceedingly delightful [](http://betweenthebliss.livejournal.com/profile)[betweenthebliss](http://betweenthebliss.livejournal.com/) for looking this over for me. ♥

El glances up when Neal comes back in, graceful fingers tucking the napkin she's been fiddling with back inside its ring.  Neal's eyes sweep over the table--set for three with the nice silverware, champagne chilling in a bucket on the sideboard while Vivaldi trills in the background--and come to rest on her hopeful face.

"Any luck?" she asks, eyebrows raised.

He tucks his hands in his pockets to stall a second, then gives in and shakes his head, wincing a little at the way her mouth turns down at the corners in disappointment.

"Hey, he'll be here," he soothes, coming over to the table to sit next to her.  He meets her eyes and offers a quirk of a shrug. "They're probably still in the meeting. I mean, you know Hughes, once he gets going, he just keeps _going_ and going and going--" he covers her hand with his, rubbing gently over her knuckles with his thumb.  She nods, hiding a half-indulgent smile; his eyes catch on the silver clip in her hair as it flashes in the candlelight, and drift down to linger on the line of pearls at her throat, the flattering neckline of her cobalt dress. She looks gorgeous tonight, he thinks, mouth twisting in a frown. "He'll be here," he says again.

"I know he'll be here," she says, turning to smile at him. Her blue eyes look brighter than usual, and his stomach curls. "I just want to know when!" she goes on, all fond exasperation. "Reminds me of the old days, when he barely made it home before nine most nights. Did you try texting him?"

At the question, he finds his frown fading. "A while ago," he offers, fishing his phone out of his pocket. "But you know him--he's, ah, less than adept at that manner of communication." He brings up the text and shows her the screen, biting down a smile as he rereads it:

_9illbe there in 20 minu tes meetng overtime_  

He watches her mouth curve ruefully, eyes creasing at the corners. "You'd think a smart guy like him would be able to figure out how to text," she sighs, shaking her head. "Nope. Not _my_ husband."

Neal presses a grinning kiss to her temple. "It's the backspace key that gets him," he tells her, heaving a fake sigh. "He starts out fine, and then--"

The sound of the door being wrenched open interrupts him. The two of them glance up, though they don't need to--the particular hurried jumble of footsteps is one they both know as well as their own. Neal squeezes El's hand, and they watch as Peter comes in, hair looking like a tornado's been through it and tie wrinkled enough to make Neal actually wince.

"El, honey, Neal--I'm so sorry," he begins, voice soft with worry. He shoves his briefcase on the couch and his long legs eat up the distance between them in a second. "Hughes--" he goes on as he reaches the chair, peering down at El with a frown marring his face.

El beams up at him. "It's okay, Peter," she says, reaching up to smooth her fingers over the front of his hair and bring some semblance of order back to it. "Really! You're here. And we didn't wait that long, anyway, did we, Neal?" she asks.

"No," Neal says, sliding his arms over her shoulders and tucking her head under his chin so he can peer up at Peter with mock reproach. "But a man who can keep a woman this beautiful waiting at all . . . " he starts, letting the taunt hang in the air and watching as some of the tension at the corners of Peter's eyes fades.

El slaps his wrist with her fingers lightly, laughing. "Neal," she admonishes, all fond and sweet. He pulls her close, grinning up at Peter as the warmth of her small body registers in his heart, his pulse. Peter's face creases into a fond expression, and he reaches out to cup El's chin in his hand delicately, like she's a work of art that belongs in the Met.

"I don't deserve you," he murmurs. It's so clear and honest it makes Neal's breath knot and stick in his chest--he watches as Peter brings his mouth to brush gently over El's, and meets Peter's eyes easily when Peter glances up. Peter's gaze is heavy with meaning, but where Neal once would have run, he keeps looking instead. Those steady brown eyes have kept him grounded for years; he's not about to run away from the best thing he's ever gotten.

"Either of you," Peter adds when he moves away, like it wasn't clear. "But maybe this'll make up for it a little," he offers, smug smile digging itself into the corners of his mouth.

He produces two roses from somewhere, bought on a street corner from the fresh look of them. El makes a gleeful sound and brings one to her nose, inhaling deeply and closing her eyes. Peter raises his eyebrows at Neal and waggles the remaining rose in his fingertips; Neal shakes his head.

"Roses, Peter?" he asks, smiling and raising his mouth for his own kiss. "Little cliche," he murmurs against Peter's lips, tugging at his tie teasingly and hoping adoration isn't obvious like an amateur forgery across his face.

Peter's mouth is twisted in Neal's favorite exasperated expression when he pulls away. "Classic. Not cliche," he admonishes Neal, tapping his nose with the flower. "Classics never go out of style."

Neal smiles. "Keep telling yourself that," he advises, ducking his head to hide his ridiculous grin.


End file.
